


namesake retrograde

by foxwedding



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Fae Jaskier | Dandelion, Feral Jaskier | Dandelion, General Heartbreak, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, Multi, Pining, Slow Burn, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-24
Updated: 2020-05-29
Packaged: 2021-03-03 07:14:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24347071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foxwedding/pseuds/foxwedding
Summary: 'Fifty years of meticulously crafted lies become dust in the wind before Jaskier can realize what's happening.  Distantly, he thinks he hears the tonal crack of shattering crystal, before his mouth rushes with hot saliva and bottom drops out from his stomach.'Jaskier's glamour is obliterated. It goes worse than expected.Pre-Geralt/Yen/Jaskier; Mind the tags; Post S1
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 105
Kudos: 452





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Based mostly on the TV interpretation of Jaskier, but with a healthy dose of the Dandelion from the books, who's canonically way shadier and a literal Redanian spy.
> 
> The fae here are based on traditional Irish lore, in which fae are dangerous creatures of dual nature- reveling in deceit but also pleasure-seekers and nature dwellers
> 
> EDIT: DEAD DOVE, guys pls read the tags

Fifty years of meticulously crafted lies, as well as the gains of his entire inheritance, become dust in the wind before Jaskier can realize what's happening. Distantly, he thinks he hears the tonal crack of shattering crystal, before his mouth rushes with hot saliva and bottom drops out from his stomach. There's a tug at his gut, his jaw crushes shut on his tongue, and suddenly he's looking at the exposed beams of the ceiling— which is strange, because he was just staring at the stone walls, he thinks.

There's an immediate danger at present, Jaskier's dimly aware of it, but he can't quite remember what's happening around him— not while his body feels as though it's expanding past the boundaries of his own skin. Pain sings in his head, he's weightless with it, tethered to consciousness only at his abdomen, which convulses violently and forces mouthfuls of bloody saliva out onto the packed dirt beneath his cheek.

He needs to get up, needs to get his hands underneath him and push up from the ground—except, _oh,_ he's upright again, seemingly without effort, the entire weight of his body suspended by a grip at the inside of his elbow. _How strange._ His feet clumsily scramble for purchase beneath him, his entire body trying desperately to find an axis to align itself to.

There's a sharp pressure on the scalp at the back of his head, and then the awful, grinning face of a man fills his sight line. _Oh right,_ Jaskier remembers with distant panic. _This absolute twat._ An expression of sadistic delight twists the guy's features now, cruelty a spark in his otherwise flat eyes. Out of his line of sight, he senses Geralt and Yennefer up against the opposite wall. Jaskier does not have high hopes for his own outcome.

The man is muttering something in between low chuckles, but the sounds of it are warbled inside Jaskier's head. He can't seem to concentrate on the relevant details of the situation. The damp air smells of turned earth and rotting copper, bog water trickles in through cracks in the wall stones, drip-dropping steadily from the upper corner of the dungeon. The roots of a gnarled oak just beyond the wall are slowly permeating the ancient foundations of this horrible place. Jaskier thinks the rock will only hold out another decade or so before ceding to the oak that holds dominion over this land.

Which is all to say that he cannot focus on what really matters in this moment— namely that the man is roughly swiping his thumb along Jaskier's bottom lip, cooing atrocious promises over the cacophony of rattling chain and the animal timbre of Geralt's roaring threats somewhere behind him. The bard thinks it would all be quite humorous, if only he wasn't so damn perplexed.

The zip of tearing silk cuts through the fog of Jaskier's confusion. Cold air envelopes his torso, wet with sweat and blood. His doublet and chemise are a crumple of purple and gold silk on the ground. _Wait a minute,_ Jaskier realizes with a shock of true horror— that's his favorite performance garb. This— no, this will _not_ stand. He struggles against the hold, greatly dismayed when his wrists are easily caught in two crushing hands. The long edge of something presses at the back of his knees— he turns his head. It's that filthy, ratty cot. Ungentle hands are pushing him backwards.

"Jaskier!" The pitch of Yennefer's scream breaks halfway through in utter panic. He thinks he's never heard the mage so scared.

Oh. _Oh no_.

The gravity of the situation lands. 

The man is laughing hot, stinking breath into Jaskier's face. "You ready to give them a show, pretty?" The bard thinks he's never been asked a stupider question in his life.

Jaskier takes a split-second to consider his options. His body is unsettled in his skin— his limbs are half-responsive, at best. The web of intersecting ley lines under the ground overwhelms his senses, having been numb to them for half-a-century. He looks over at his travel companions. The twin expressions of absolute horror on Yennefer and Geralt's faces scare him more than anything else has tonight. Hot rage floods his body, makes him effervescent with the sweet promise of violence.

He looks back at the man that's been afflicting agony on the three of them for the better part of two days.

"Nah," Jaskier decides, before surging forward and closing his jaw over the guy's windpipe. 

Hot, metallic warmth floods his mouth for the second time tonight, filling his mouth in rapid bursts, spilling out and down his neck and chest. Rough nails scrape viciously at Jaskier's shoulders as the man frantically attempts to dislodge himself. In response, the bard bites down harder, the muscles at the hinges of his jaw aching, cartilage crunching between his incisors, the man's pulse echoing in his ears deliriously, like the final, frenzied measures of a slip jig. The earth is alive under him, the ley lines taut and vibrating.

Jaskier wrenches his head to one side— he wants to separate the man's voice box from his throat, he thinks. Suddenly, the weight lifts and Jaskier unearths his jaw as the man falls backwards limply. He's left standing with a mouthful of blood and gristle, the bulk of it lying strangely on his tongue. He spits the mass onto the ground, and then stares at it some, feeling inexplicably bereft.

With the man goes the bondage spell that keeps his companions restrained to the stone wall. The magically-enhanced chain reverts to normal steel links, which Yennefer separates from their wrists with an exhausted whisper.

Jaskier forces his shaking legs to move towards her, intending to help her to her feet, until his body is stopped by the cold press of metal at his throat. Bewildered, Jaskier's gaze follows the blade to its hilt, where Geralt stands imposingly, his face a slate of ice-cold fury. He dangles something golden and glimmering before Jaskier's eyes.

"What. The fuck. Are you." The witcher asks, tone utterly devoid of inflection.

Jaskier glances from his best friend's face to the bauble swinging in his fist. _Wait_ , the bard thinks, _that's mine_. He reaches up to paw at his own chest, confounded when the necklace isn't there— of course it's not, because it's _right there,_ in Geralt's hand, cracked along the surface and leaking magic into the ether. Jaskier stares as the pendant vacillates in the air, trying to make sense of way the Yennefer readies herself behind Geralt, body coiled to fight.

It takes a beat for the realization to fully land.

"Ah," Jaskier croaks mildly. "That."

He feels, rather than sees, Yennefer direct a _somne_ at him, which he makes no move to deflect. It'll be a blessing, Jaskier thinks as it hits, to have a few hours of peace before he has to confront five decades of compounded lies.

~+~

The low hum of earth gently guides Jaskier to consciousness. Even before he opens his eyes, he knows he's been restrained. There's cold iron clamped around both wrists, nearly deafening the ley frequencies and numbing his senses to the natural world. He's on his back, hands bound behind him and trapped under the weight of his body. For a while he simply lies there, willing his body back into slumber. It doesn't work. He exhales heavily through his nose.

"Have you enthralled me, then?" Comes a growl from about five paces away.

Jaskier's eyes open involuntarily. The sky is barely pre-dawn. The morning birds will be starting up any moment now. He glances to the side. Geralt's sitting at the base of great sycamore, legs stretched out in front of him and crossed at the ankle. The gleaming length of his silver blade is balanced across his thighs, his whetstone in the grass beside him.

Jaskier frowns. "Fucking what?" He asks, trying to blink some moisture into his dry eyes. _Fuck,_ he's so thirsty.

"Have you," Geralt repeats, leaning forward slightly so that his medallion pulls free from the confines of his tunic. "Enthralled me?" He continues.

"No?" Jaskier replies distractedly, lifting his head to look around— _ah, there's his lute,_ tucked safely against his pack across the smoldering firepit. He relaxes some. "By the way, where are we?" _How far away from that fucking dungeon_ is the question he wants to ask, but he's reluctant to address the topic head on.

Geralt ignores the question entirely. "You're fae," he spits with vitriol into the space between them.

It's not an unexpected reaction, but it surprises Jaskier nonetheless. He gnaws at his lower lip, his mouth still tasting of dirty copper. He has a choice to make. Because he cannot lie now, his very nature disallows it. And, in all honestly, he'd never planned for a confrontation such as this. Sure, he'd always known it to be a possibility, but a far-off one, one that never demanded his immediate attention. His mind should be racing right now, he thinks. Frantically conjuring clever evasions, slights of hand, _something_ to redirect Geralt's focus.

But there's nothing. He's devoid of even the motivation for such an undertaking. In the end, Jaskier knows he doesn't actually have a choice at all.

"Yes," he eventually agrees. The long moment of silence that follows begins to fill with birdsong, like the world itself is mocking Jaskier. 

He can't take the quiet. "You know," he begins, glancing over to the witcher. Geralt's jaw is clenched so tightly that the cords of the muscle bulge under the skin, his hands two white-knuckled fists in his lap.

Jaskier swallows a sharp inhale and begins again, softly. "You know, that silver won't work on me," he drops his gaze meaningfully to the witcher's blade. "You'd actually have better luck with the steel."

Geralt's expression is unchanged. "Are you mocking me right now?" The tone is icy calm.

"What?" Jaskier's utterly bewildered. _"No!"_ He lifts his head to stare at the witcher, but lets it fall back when the prolonged effort causes his temples to pound angrily. "I'm being— _helpful!"_ Jaskier clarifies indignantly. 

"Helpful?" Geralt hisses, throwing his arms out at both sides. "When the hell are _you_ ever helpful?"

 _Well that's not fair,_ Jaskier thinks reflexively. After all, his neck and collar are still tacky with dried blood. He heaves himself upwards, wriggling his shoulders to bring his arms further up beneath him. Finally, he's propped up on both elbows, hands still bound near the small of his back. The bard's ready for this particular debate— he's been preparing his arguments since last year's dragon hunt, when Geralt implied that Jaskier's presence was _not_ a blessing.

Before he can launch his opening gambit, however, the witcher's barreling forwards without pause. "Fucking Melitele, I've brought you in and out of every court in the northern kingdoms— you've been enthralling nobles into bed—"

"Good gods, no!" Jaskier interjects, horrified. He doesn't think to mention that he's been unable to align to the leys for the past fifty years.

Geralt continues relentlessly. "Fuck, how many of these royal squabbles that I've had to put out are _your_ doing, Jaskier?"

"None!" And is compelled to add, "—that I'm aware of." 

Geralt's on his feet in whirl of creaking leather and clanging steel. He stands over Jaskier imposingly, his anger a tangible force.

"Gods, it all finally makes sense," the witcher spits. "The endless pursuit of pleasure, the damned inescapable songs—your absolute inability to abstain from the places where you're _not wanted-"_

And _oh,_ that last one cuts.

Geralt continues, "Despite all my efforts, you always manage to cling back to me. I imagine it must be satisfying to be able to deceive a witcher—" And apparently he's on a roll now, because it devolves into, "Tell me, Jaskier, when you brought me to that Cintran banquet, had you planned to ruin the life of an unborn child, or was my taking the Law of Surprise just a happy coincidence for you?"

Jaskier's reeling. In two decades of knowing the witcher, he could've never predicted that revealing himself could go so poorly. Geralt's face is twisted in disgust. This isn't just the anger of a deceived man. This is _resentment._

"You must be joking— your mistakes didn't require my help at all, Geralt. Truly, a lesser fae wouldn't have been able to resist such an easy mark—" Fuck, fuck, _fuck_ why did he say that? The words are spilling from his mouth before he can process them— he's lashing out like a wounded animal now.

But Geralt seems to have driven this argument in a new direction. "All you do is meddle and prod— you just stir the _fucking_ pot, Jaskier, until I have to save you when it all boils over."

"Firstly, that's a gross oversimplification of our dynamic—" 

"I should have left you on that mountain." Geralt's shaking his head, like he's disappointed in himself most of all. And then Jaskier's not entirely certain of anything, except for the sense that a direct punch to the solar plexus would have been kinder.

The curious thing about heartbreak, Jaskier will think later, is that the freefall of it makes one utterly uninhibited. Which is probably why he replies with: "Then allow me to grant you that last blessing, witcher— I think we could do with some indefinite time apart." He can hear the bitter outrage in his own voice.

Geralt gives a rare laugh, and it's an ugly bark of a thing. "You think I'd allow you to go _now?_ I've given you twenty years of unfettered access to every sovereign court where I've ever taken a job!" The witcher is breathless with incredulous anger. "You think I should— what? Set you free to wreak havoc across Temeria?"

"By the gods, it's _me,_ Geralt!" Surely, the witcher wouldn't— _cannot possibly_ be considering—

But before it can escalate, Yennefer's stepping through the nearby brush, tossing a blasé "Alright, that's enough," at the two of them as she steps over the firepit.

Judging by her wet, freshly-combed hair, she's been bathing in a nearby stream. She tucks a mass of folded linen into her own pack, and rummages around before unearthing a glass vial of amber oil. When she turns to them, her expression is so supremely unimpressed that Jaskier feels embarrassed despite his own heartbreak.

"Geralt, go ready Roach," she directs calmly at the witcher. _"Now."_ She adds, when the man appears about to protest. Geralt clenches his jaw once, twice, and then turns with a snarl.

Yennefer hikes up the hem of her dress as she kneels by Jaskier's side. The bard watches wearily, trying to gage the sorceress's intentions. In no way does it escape him that she's now free and clear to dispose of him as she sees fit—but he's come to think of them fond adversaries. Yen's been traveling with them for almost a year now, and Jaskier's developed a reluctant respect for her—hoping the sentiment was mutual, of course.

"Jaskier," Yen sighs, the way she does when the bard costs them favors with an innkeeper.

"Whatever you're about to say, please don't." Jaskier fixes his gaze on a hawk circling high above them.

"You know, most everyone believes the fae went extinct after the Great Cleansing." She announces after a long moment of silence. Jaskier snorts—as if he's not well aware of this fact. He wonders if _she_ believed it.

"Not so much," he shrugs. "We gathered all our own and retreated to our mounds— it's much nicer there, anyhow." The thought of home brings a fresh wave of defeat. He thinks it must show on his face, because Yen follows up with:

"You're quite a deal prettier without the glamour."

"I'm always pretty," he replies, but it's utterly lacking in heat. 

Yen tuts and leans forward, startling Jaskier when he feels her fingers press something warm and slick into the skin behind his ears. The smell of it is earthy but unfamiliar. She next mutters a few words, and he can feel the shackles crack open beneath him. Pins and needles flood his hands as feeling returns.

"Oh, thank Melitele," he sighs. At least Yen's being reasonable. Between her and Geralt, Jaskier wouldn't have put his coin on Yen being the one to maintain trust in the bard. Maybe because she herself is half-elf, he wonders—

"I'm sorry, Jaskier," Yen interrupts his ponderings as she helps him sit up.

Jaskier frowns distractedly, rubbing at the raw skin of his wrists. "What for?" There's a beat silence. He looks at her.

 _"Julian Alfred Pankratz,"_ she's whispering, smiling sadly, though her eyes are alight with power. 

_No,_ thinks Jaskier, _please no._

_"Your name belongs to me. Your will is bound to mine."_

The skin behind his ears is searing hot, the fumes of the oil nearly blinding him now. He clamps both hands to his ears, expecting his palms to be wet with blood when they pull away. They're not—just slick with the glistening shine of—

"Distillate of rowan," Yen gently informs him.

The realization steals his breath. Jaskier can feel the hot sting of tears as they trail down his face-which is strange, he thinks, because he doesn't feel much of anything at this particular moment. He looks at Yen— _really looks_ at her, trying to make sense of it all. She looks away.

"It's not forever," she mutters, a half-hearted encouragement. 

_What the hell does that matter?_ Jaskier wants to scream, but his anger is short-lived, replaced quickly with a profound sadness. 

"Come on, Jaskier," Yennefer murmurs, indicating for the bard to stand and follow.

 _"Fuck you,"_ he spits with as much acidic as he can muster. 

"Come, Julian," Yen tries instead, and Jaskier feels the unpleasant pull at his gut when he initially attempts to resist.

Geralt _does_ appear to still trust Yennefer though, observing as Jaskier stumbles to his feet and falls in line behind the sorceress. He glances between her and the bard, apparently satisfied with what he surmises. Jaskier watches the sun come up over the horizon and wonders if he still thinks of this trio as home.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not sure exactly how to tag this fic. It's not meant to be dark, but I also don't think the three of them would have a canonically healthy relationship- certainly not at the beginning, and to write it that way would feel OOC for me. Anyhow, please mind the tags, hopefully I didn't leave any out!

The silence is a palpable tension, but for once, Jaskier revels in it. His lute brushes against his back with each heavy step, but he makes no motion to pull it around to his front. 

The dried blood that paints his neck and bare torso pulls at the skin of his chest uncomfortably. Jaskier rubs at his sternum, trying to scrub the dried flakes away, and is briefly startled by the noticeable dearth of chest hair. He feels his shoulder slump forwards as he pouts—the abundant chest hair had been one of his favorite details of the glamour. It had been so novel, _so human,_ particularly since fae body hair tended towards fine and sparse, no matter color or texture.

Jaskier's mouth is parched, tasting stale and coppery. He rubs his tongue along his teeth and dried lips, tries to gather enough moisture to swallow and coat his throat. 

He thinks Yenn would give him some water if he asked, but he's damned if he going to talk to either her or Geralt right now. He's got nothing now, if not pride, and he'd rather keel over and die on the side of the road before he initiates communication. He keeps his gaze intently on the surrounding foliage as they walk—Yennefer behind him, Geralt and Roach in front.

They've only traveled a mile or so, before Geralt's pulling Roach off the dirt trail and guiding her down a gentle slope towards a small ravine. The banks of it are wide, but the water itself looks to be about knee-deep. Geralt dismounts and Roach ambles to the water to drink her fill. Jaskier feels, rather than sees, Yennefer cautiously approach him from behind. He refuses to look at her. 

"Jaskier, go wash up," she murmurs, her voice barely audible above the babbling ravine. _Good,_ Jaskier thinks, _let her drown in shame._ He briefly considers refusing, on principle, but thinks better of it when he realizes he'd be only punishing himself.

He shucks off his trousers and underclothes, tossing them onto a dry patch of grass, before gently setting his lute down atop the heap. All the while, he's aware of Geralt and Yennefer watching his movements.

The water is frigid when he steps in— snowmelt from the mountains, he thinks. The stones under his feet have been smoothed with time but are still rough enough to give his soles traction. Jaskier kneels and icy water comes halfway up his waist. He cups handful after handful to his mouth, desperately gulping down the clear water. 

After that, he begins the process of scouring his skin, using the sand of the riverbed to aid him. Slowly, three days' worth of dungeon grime and fear-sweat and mixed blood are carried south by the water's current, and Jaskier feels reborn into his original body. He marginally taller now, his body slighter than before, and when he reaches for his face, the harsh scrape of nascent facial hair is gone. He sighs with disappointment. He'd _enjoyed_ looking human, harboring some of the more weathered, masculine qualities that he, himself, is so attracted to.

Now, Jaskier gets to enjoy the dual humiliation of being bound to the lover of the man _he himself _pines for, while looking like some virginal stable boy. He fidgets and glances down into the clear water—at least his cock seems largely unchanged, a minor blessing, he thinks.__

____

____

When he steps out the water, Yenn's pushing an armful of laundered linen into his chest. He glances down—it's a fresh change of clothing from his own pack. He takes it wordlessly and pulls it on, hopping irritably when the fabric catches on his wet skin.

"Jaskier," Yenn begins, her tone imploring. " _Please,_ try to understand—"

But Jaskier doesn't want to understand right now. Anger flares to life under his skin once more, and he turns on her, his body moving in sharp bursts, fire on his tongue.

" _You,_ " he hisses, and she jerks back from him. "Of all people, _you_ should understand how this feels." He wants to scream. He wants to cry.

_____ _

_____ _

"I do," the sorceress confirms, and the even sympathy in her tone has him wanting to grab her by the hair and shake. Geralt would surely kill him. Jaskier reels himself in.

"Then _why?"_ He spits. He wants the vitriol in his voice to make her flinch. She does not.

"Because you managed to fool a seasoned witcher and an experienced sorceress." Her honesty is forcefully blunt.

"You two think so goddamn highly of yourselves—" Jaskier begins, then switches tracks, back to the heart of the matter. "It's fucking _me_ —you know me, Yenn!"

"No, clearly we don't." She seems utterly sure of this statement. Jaskier is dumbfounded.

"How can you not trust me?"

"Because you clearly didn't trust us—"

"With good fucking reason, looks like!" Jaskier cuts in, his voice nearly hoarse with outrage. "Melitele, fucking look at me. Twenty-years you've known me— _twenty years_ —and it only takes half-a-night for you to shackle me as soon as you realize you can use me—"

Yennefer's face twists strangely, a blink-and-you-miss-it affair, before she's growling, "That's enough, Jaskier." Geralt's moved between them now.

_No, it's not even close,_ the bard thinks. _I'm not done yet._ Above him, the branches of a nearby ash tree groan as its leaves flutter wildly and the perched blackbirds scatter into the sky.

"What a well-matched trio we are," Jaskier mocks viciously. He can feel the ley lines under his bare feet more strongly now that they're nearby water. "One of you has leashed the other, and the other's now leashed me—", he sees Geralt flinch minutely at the words and it makes Jaskier feel powerful.

"Witcher, shall I complete the wheel?" Jaskier carries on. "I could make you understand what it is to _truly _be enthralled, and then we three can merrily claw at each other's throats until the end of our days." In the corner of his vision, he's vaguely aware of water climbing further and further up the banks, the current of the ravine slowly redirecting itself.__

____

____

"But I won't. And I wouldn't." Jaskier's voice breaks on that last bit. "Because I've still got more humanity than the two of you combined." It's a low blow, he knows it, says it anyway. 

Roach shifts restlessly on her hind legs, huffing as water comes to lap at her hooves. Jaskier cannot stop himself, cannot bring himself back down. Judging by Yenn's expression, she's realized the same.

_"Julian,"_ she starts, pulling herself to full height.

"Don't you _fucking_ dare," Jaskier hisses at her, the words spilling out of his mouth before he can consider what he needs right now.

"Jaskier. Stop." Geralt's got his upper arm in a bruising grip, and Jaskier throws his whole body into the action of wrenching himself free.

_"No!"_ Jaskier booms, involuntarily siphoning from the ley thread. The magic surges through his body, zings up his spine faster than the reflexes of his own body. His voice echoes through the small glen for an unnaturally long time and the low hum of the ley frequency underpins the sound menacingly. 

Geralt springs backwards in alarm while every leaf from the black ash tree drops to the river bank at once. Jaskier startles—he hadn't meant for that to happen, hadn't realized his anger had gotten to that point.

For a long moment, no one speaks. Jaskier stares mournfully at the ash. Without the leaves to catch the sunlight, the tree cannot feed. Without sustenance, its roots cannot draw water. This far from winter, the tree will wither and die. He reaches out with his own magic to prod at the rings of the trunk, grimacing internally—a hundred years this ash stood, only to be fell by a fae having a tantrum.

_Actions and consequences._

He looks at his companions. Yennefer's carrying herself tall and proud, but she's got the knuckles of one trembling hand pressed to her lips, staring out over the water. Jaskier deflates. For two decades he's wanted to get one up on Yenn, has fantasized about the satisfaction of doing so—but _this? _This feels horrendous.__

____

____

He looks at Geralt. The witcher meets his gaze evenly, expression utterly unreadable.

"You've been lying to me for twenty years, Jaskier," Geralt begins, "and despite my better judgement, I am _looking_ for proof that you are still the man I know." The witcher surveys their surroundings meaningfully. "This is not it." He concludes.

"You have me bound like some animal," Jaskier exhales, his voice weak and reedy.

"You haven't given me a reason to unbind you," Geralt counters.

"I never gave you a reason to bind me to begin with!" But the protest falls on deaf ears. The witcher's already mounted Roach and is riding back towards the road.

Jaskier shoves his boots into his pack—fuck it, he'll go barefoot from here on out. He'll be more in tune with the surroundings, and there's no point trying to obscure the facts anymore. He heaves the bag onto one shoulder, and his lute onto the other. He glances at the crumpled and filthy remains of his trousers and decides they're beyond repair.

"You would not enthrall us, just as I won't use you."

Jaskier startles. Yenn's standing beside him, impeccably put together despite the circumstances, staring at the bard with an expression of—earnestness? Jaskier couldn't possibly determine, seeing as he's never once witnessed her display anything even approaching sincerity in the two decades that he's known her.

Jaskier barks a laugh. "You're telling me the thought of using my magic hasn't crossed your mind?"

"Of course it has, I am who I am." Yenn maintains eye contact. "But I will not."

She then turns and follows Geralt out of the glen. Jaskier sighs, feeling somewhat emotionally numb, and rummages around the inner pocket of his pack. Unearthing some hard jerky and a soft apple, he shoves it into his mouth unceremoniously.

The two of them have disappeared over the lip of the slope now, and Jaskier knows he could slip away now, if he so desired. He ponders over that thought while chewing. In the end, he trudges back up to where they've been, apparently, waiting for him. Geralt's leaning down, conversing with Yenn in hushed tones. Jaskier eyes the way the sorceress's delicate, pale hand rests atop the witcher's knee, and forces his gaze away.

This is what he knows, he thinks. He's still angry— _so angry, _this fight is nowhere near finished. But where else would he go? He won't entertain the thought of returning home— the choice is so far from a viable option that he almost laughs at himself. And besides that, he spent the entirety of his inheritance on that damned everlasting glamour, which now sits in pile of shattered crystal and tangled gold chain at the bottom of his bag. What a fool he is.__

____

____

The three of them spend the day journeying in tense silence once more. In Jaskier's emotional stupor, the hours pass by like minutes. His mind conjures bits of poetry, fractions of stanzas, short riffs of melody, all of which slip through his grasp when he tries to concentrate on them. He's entirely unmotivated to create and his body his aching in his joints, probably from having grown out of his glamour so abruptly. 

Jaskier wonders what his face looks like now. He knows the glamour didn't alter his features so much as create the effect that he was aging at a human's pace. Sure, it also softened the angles of face, shortened his stance a bit, made the shape of his eyes less cat-like, but other than that, he thinks he probably still looks like the man that Geralt and Yenn knew. _Knows._

In the late afternoon, Geralt halts Roach and they all make camp on the edge of a rolling meadow. The witcher disappears into the surrounding grove and returns a while later with three rabbits and a broken branch laden with small, wild plums. They eat in uncomfortable silence, with Geralt and Yenn tip-toeing around Jaskier, watching him out of the corners of their eyes. It all has the bard looking longingly at the treeline across the meadow.

"Stay, Julian," Yennefer whispers, but Jaskier can't tell whether or not she's put intent into the statement. He's reluctant to know the truth, and so he settles into his bedroll and watches Roach graze the wild grasses.

When the sky grows darker, he traces the constellations with his gaze, tries to remember the elder names for each one, and then the fae names. He concentrates on one particular grouping of stars near the southern horizon. In western fae cultures, it's considered a hook-beaked blackbird. In Redania, they see it as a scythe. In Cintra, a washerwoman. In Kaedwan, a mother bear.

Across the fire, Geralt and Yennefer whisper to one another. Had this been a fortnight ago, Jaskier would be scooting closer to eavesdrop or bursting at the seams to interject. Right now, however, he cannot bring himself to even look at them.

Yenn's voice filters in through his thoughts— she's been calling his name, he realizes. He glances over at the pair. In the soft firelight, they're both strikingly beautiful and Jaskier's broken heart kicks fitfully in his chest.

"Why did you leave the mound?" She's asking, and the question reverberates through his empty body. _Why did he leave the mound?_ To think about it at all feels like trying to recall a past lifetime.

"I was betrothed," Jaskier finally mutters, feeling far away from his body.

"Ah, of course," Geralt snorts from his own bedroll, "Couldn't let that get in the way of decadence and general sybaritism." The witcher sounds, of course, entirely unsympathetic to the ordeal.

Jaskier doesn't mention the particulars—the purposeless cruelty, the shame of being made to submit, the ceiling of the stable shed moving back-and-forth while the sharp ends of dry hay tore at the skin of his back, _he'd never known people could hurt each other in this way—_

"He was—unkind," Jaskier instead summarizes. 

_"He?"_ Yenn interjects, "Is that common among the fae?"

Jaskier shrugs apathetically. "As common as anything else, I suppose." Commonality doesn't play a part when it comes to royal decree, he thinks, but does not say aloud. He's done with this line of conversation. His fingers itch for his lute.

He rolls to one side, putting his back to the two of them. The fire warms alongside backside as he gazes out at the treeline. He presses the palm of his hand to the ground beside his bedroll. The magic deep in the earth hums, the vibrations so low that Jaskier can hear the individual pulses. Layered on top, the trees and shrubbery sing at their own frequencies, peppered in with bursts of fluttering, effervescent pitches as animals move about the forest. It all collectively harmonizes, a low, primal drone that lulls Jaskier to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can't wait to start writing about Jaskier being a sneaky lil fae heheh


	3. Chapter 3

A couple days later, they finally reach a village, and Jaskier almost collapses with relief at the change of scenery. Geralt's resolutely not talking to Jaskier, and Jaskier's resolutely not talking to Yennefer. Under any other set of circumstances, it would actually resemble their status quo. Except that, right now, the three of them are hyperaware of each other's presence, moving out of each other's way gracelessly, stumbling through even the most basic, necessary communications.

Jaskier's disaster revelation has upset the tenuous balance of Yenn and Geralt's relationship. Their dynamic has always been in a state of constant fluctuation, ebbing and flowing on the whims of their passions. But, in the past few months, they'd begun to settle into a dynamic approximating a partnership. It'd been excruciating to watch, if anyone asked the bard. No one did. 

But now, it was painfully strained between the two of them. Their tension was a palpable entity, adding to the already deeply unpleasant atmosphere among the trio. Jaskier wasn't certain what had caused the sudden the rift, he was only aware that, without his constant chatter and playful mediation, Geralt and Yenn's relationship was starting to devolve. Their sharp retorts and fervent disagreements— whispered though they were— were reminiscent of a dynamic from the earlier stages of their relationship, all righteous fury and temperamental civility.

The Jaskier of a year past would've been absolutely delighted to witness this deterioration. Would have loved the opportunity to reclaim Geralt for himself, to dangle the achievement in Yenn's face, to make them both treat him as an equal. _No,_ Jaskier thinks as he mulls over the thought. His past-self would have _thought_ he'd be delighted. This ordeal would have been as horrible then as it is now. He thinks, when you love someone— the truest kind of love, the kind Jaskier writes into his ballads— then you love their happiness highest of all. Yenn made Geralt happy, the bard thinks, and right now Geralt is _miserable._

Of course, this sentiment wars directly with Jaskier's sheer outrage at the man, who'd rendered two decades of companionship null and void the moment he realized Jaskier had deigned to keep a few _minor_ details of his life to himself. The bard swallows suddenly when he considers, _perhaps Geralt had just been waiting for the right excuse to finally rid himself of Jaskier._ But no, because then the witcher would not have insisted on shackling the bard to them for some yet-to-be-determined length of time.

Geralt secured a room at the first inn they stumbled upon, and promptly left Yenn and Jaskier in the tavern on the ground floor to go do gods-know-what. Jaskier didn't ask. Nor was he informed. He had no idea at the intended sleeping arrangements— were there two cots in the room? One? Was Jaskier to sleep on the floor? Outside with Roach?

Jaskier sighs as tunes his lute now. He's been conversing with a few of the locals for a bit, getting a feel for the village, the people, the lore. There's a bit of chatter about some hulking beast that continues to abscond away with the dairy cows, leaving the only gaping maw of their stripped carcasses along the forest line. He thinks that's probably where Geralt's fucked off to, then.

As he mingles, the tavern's crowd slowly grows as word of a passing bard permeates the town. He wonders if they'll be as enthused about the presence of a witcher and a sorceress. The barmaid— Adalina, she introduces herself, glancing between Jaskier and his lute doubtfully— continues to pour him ales, free of charge, as he lets puffed up townfolk spout praises about their village at him, the worldly and traveled bard.

When dusk finally sets, the increasingly-rowdy throng starts to demand music, and Jaskier happily acquiesces. He starts with a couple old standards, known across the kingdoms— _Two Sisters_ and _Old Maid in the Garret,_ both enduring crowd favorites. At some point, Yennefer comes down from the room to watch the performance. In an attempt to irritate her, he launches into one of his own songs— _The Fishmonger's Wife_ — and has the lot of them singing along, slapping the wooden table tops to the beat. He continues along this line— _Whiskey in Jar, Dúlaman, County Down,_ and the like—until the sky is pitch black outside. 

Halfway through _Mairi's Wedding,_ the tavern door shoves open, and Geralt's massive form enters, dripping with viscera, handsome face scowling, gripping a bloody troll head in one fist. The crowd immediately falls silent and stares, and Jaskier cannot help himself— he snorts with barely contained laughter. The witcher looks utter undignified under the crowd's scrutiny.

"Ahh, there he is," Jaskier announces, his tone pleasant enough. "Your witcher, The White Wolf, everyone. Your dairy cows have nothing to fear now." He rolls right into the opening chords of _Toss A Coin,_ and the tavern roars in delighted recognition, all of them pushing about to get a glimpse of the famous White Wolf. Did Jaskier add just a _touch_ of thrall to create the spectacle? _Perhaps._

The bard laughs his way through half-a-verse while watching townsfolk try to push coins at Geralt's panicked face, until Yenn stands to help. The song ends, and the beguiled patrons simmer down and return their attentions to Jaskier. 

After some time, Jaskier finishes his set with _Her Sweet Kiss_ and then _Siúil a Rún,_ when the barmaid requests it. 

_I wish, I wish, I wish in vain  
I wish I had my heart again._

Jaskier sings mournfully, glancing involuntarily to where Geralt sits, stuttering for a split-second when he finds the man looking back. All around the tavern, patrons sing along with the old and well-loved tune— this particular standard predates even Geralt, Jaskier knows.

When he finally finishes, Adalina, the barmaid, ushers the patrons out as she begins to clean the bartop. Jaskier sits at one of the crude high stools and finishes the rest of his ale. Adalina passes over some slices of roast game on bread, and Jaskier eats heartily as he converses with her. She's in her twenties, he thinks. Beautiful, in an austere way, and very, _very_ sad, he can tell.

When he glances across the room, Geralt and Yenn are gone, presumably to retire for the night. Jaskier frowns as he considers his options. Should he go up to the room? What if they tell him to leave? He swallows the last bite of bread. Or worse, _what if they're fucking?_ He looks at his lute case, left open to accept coin from the audience. There's a good amount in there— he could probably afford his own room tonight.

"Please tell me there's an open room tonight still," Jaskier groans. He stands and helps her collect wayward tankards.

Adalina spares him an even glance. "There's not. You're not rooming with the witcher and the mage?" 

He knows she's seen his grimace when she stands up straighter to look at him head on.

"We've— hmm." He considers his words. "There's been a bit of a disagreement amongst us, I'm afraid." He stacks the tankards atop each other and deposits them into a wooden tub of frothy water.

"I was listening to your songs— the lyrics _you_ wrote." She begins, and Jaskier, for the life of him, cannot follow the thread of the conversation. Adalina begins drying the tankards and setting them onto the shelves behind her.

"Which of them are you in love with?" She asks casually, eyes on her task. Jaskier panics and splutters. 

_"Shhh!"_ He hushes frantically, looking to the stairs to ensure that neither Geralt nor Yennefer are somehow hiding in the stairwell. In doing so, he realizes he's betrayed himself.

"You can tell that easily?" He sighs wearily.

She shrugs, sets down her rag, and looks at him. "Like recognizes like," she informs him. "Wounded animals can always sense one another."

Something in his chest loosens, and he slumps again into a chair. Adalina ducks behind the counter momentarily. 

"Tell you what," she says, obscured among the sounds of shuffling glass. "I've a cot in my own room." She stands up and brandishes a dusty amber bottle, shaking it between them. "I'll let you stay if you'll have a drink with me." _She's lonely too,_ he realizes.

Jaskier feels relief like a hoof lifting off his chest. He's not certain if the invitation is for something more— if so, he's delighted. If not, he's not upset about it. She pours them two glasses of dark liquor. Jaskier sips it and nearly chokes in surprise— that's _strong._

For a long stretch of time, they simply talk, and Jaskier lets himself become infatuated with this woman for tonight. He lets their shared sadness approximate a sort of physical attraction, a distraction more than anything else. And judging by the way Adalina eyes him, she's doing the same. They're both carefully sidestepping the conversation of broken hearts, both pretending to live a temporary fantasy— one in which they're fulfilled by this life. Jaskier understands —better than most— the false comfort of lying to oneself.

The mood lifts a little as they lean on each other, until finally Adalina's darkening the tavern and leading them both to her quarters.

Jaskier closes the door behind himself and turns to face the other. Adalina's standing by her bed, toying indecisively with the knot that laces her bodice. She looks at him and he approaches cautiously, prepared to ensure her that he'll keep his hands to himself.

"I'll be honest with you, I usually only lie with women," she admits, and Jaskier nods his head approvingly. _Smart girl._ Jaskier keeps his hands at his sides. Adelina clears her throat haltingly and rubs at one collarbone. "I'm _interested_ —" she continues, glancing along the length of Jaskier's body meaningfully, "But I don't want any part of you inside of me." She lays this all out, as if Jaskier would ever refuse an amorous encounter with a beautiful person— of any kind, really.

"Luckily for you, I've an exceedingly talented mouth," he responds easily, grinning when he senses the flush of her arousal.

They wash up quickly, meeting by her bed as she snuffs out the single candle. He waits for her to initiate, and initiate she does.

Adalina throws herself into kissing Jaskier with the graceless abandon of a freshly devastated woman, and Jaskier responds in kind. They pour themselves into each other, both grasping desperately at tacit reassurances of life after heartbreak, the kind of comfort that can only be shared between weak and wanting hearts. 

Soon enough, their clothing is a scattered pile along the floorboards, and Jaskier kisses his way down her stomach, settling his shoulders between her thighs. He laps at her deftly, taking his time, giving her the gentleness that he himself so craves. It's a cathartic act to give pleasure, he thinks. To narrow his focus to one goal, guided by the sharpness of her inhales, the pitch of her stifled moans. Jaskier strongly suspects that Adalina is imagining another between her legs at the moment, but finds he takes no offense to it. He doubles his efforts, wishing he could give her the reality she seeks, feeling unduly satisfied when she tenses and shudders beneath him.

Then she's sitting up, exchanging their positions and pushing Jaskier back against the woolen sheets. She settles next to him, he on his back, she on her side, before reaching down to pitter-patter her fingers along his length. He groans softly at the contact. She readjusts her position and starts stroking him slowly and deliberately. Jaskier tries to wipe thoughts of Geralt and Yennefer from his mind, to focus solely on this moment. Adalina continues at a constant pace until Jaskier's hips are dancing up to meet her hand, and then she's whispering in his ear, so softly that he barely hears the words.

"Do you wish it was her?" She's asking, and the unbidden image of Yennefer flashes across his conscious. His stomach swoops. Before he can respond, Adalina's continuing, "Or him?" Jaskier gasps as heat violently floods his gut.

_"Yes,"_ he's whispering, the barest moan of an admission. He _so close,_ his hips are meeting her hand stroke-for-stroke now, his hands fisted in the rough wool under his palms, his eyes fluttering shut.

"Or maybe—" She leans down to bite along the shell of his ear, "—both?" 

Jaskier comes so suddenly that he has to turn and muffle his groan into the crook of her neck. 

When his breath returns, and he pulls away, they're both shaking and glistening with sweat. He pulls the covers up over their bare bodies and they settle onto their sides, facing one another. Adalina laughs sadly, wetly, and a couple stray tears leak down her flushed cheeks. Jaskier reaches out to thumb them away, giving himself permission to do the same. Just for a moment. Just for tonight.

"Love is a painful thing, isn't it?" He asks her. She doesn't respond, he doesn't expect her to. They look at each other for a long while, bodies growing heavy with encroaching sleep. 

When Jaskier next opens his eyes, morning has flooded the room with light, catching the sparking edges of floating dust motes. Adalina is awake, almost fully dressed, lacing up the front stitches of her bodice. Jaskier stretches, stifles a yawn into the crook of his elbow, and gets up to follow suit.

As she's locking the door to her room behind them, an adjacent door swings open, and Geralt and Yennefer— clean, composed, fully dressed— step out into the hallway.

_Oh gods,_ Jaskier realizes with mounting horror. They were in the next room over— _how much had they heard?_ The bard tells himself he doesn't care, assures himself that he and Adalina had been duly quiet. Adalina wordlessly continues down to the tavern, giving Jaskier's upper arm a reassuring squeeze as she passes.

Jaskier swallows, readjusts the lute-strap on his shoulder, and tries fruitlessly to conjure an appropriate opener. _Good morning?_

Shockingly, Geralt does the work for him. "You didn't return to the room last night— now we can see why."

Jaskier turns the words over in his head, once, twice, three times. He's unable to decipher the witcher's tone.

"Er— yes," Jaskier responds intelligibly. "I wasn't sure if the room was for the three of us, or…" he trails off here, gesticulating arbitrarily to convey the rest of the thought. The two of them frown at him, which Jaskier interprets as exasperation over his own stupidity.

He clears his throat and gives up. This day is a write-off already. "Well then," he concludes, and follows Adalina's path to the tavern.

They eat fresh bread with butter, soft cheese, and dried dates for breakfast, all the while Adalina is shooting him glances over Geralt and Yenn's heads. Their night of shared camaraderie has boosted Jaskier's spirits greatly.

Before they depart the inn, he says his goodbyes to her.

"What happened to your lady, lovely Adalina?" He probes gently, a touch teasingly to give her the out should she need it. She squeezes at their clasped hands until her knuckles are white. 

"She got married," Adalina sighs heavily and seems to age a lifetime as she does so. "And she was never mine," she admits to Jaskier— and likely herself, the bard suspects. He squeezes her hands in return. "Maybe in another life," she whispers, and _Melitele,_ does Jaskier understand that sentiment.

"Your heart will heal," he tells them both as they separate.

"Be well, Jaskier the bard," she farewells, and he struggles not to look back as he exits the inn.

Outside, the day is lovely, cloudless, and filled with birdsong. Geralt and Yenn wait silently beside Roach. Jaskier attaches his pack to one of her saddle bags in order to free both hands for his lute. _Fuck it,_ he thinks, as he tunes his beloved. He may not feel up to singing, but he'll fill the day with music nonetheless.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look, Jaskier only has like 4 canon songs rn, so I had to add some of my own. They're all old standards, ~100 yrs old, give or take. Some are in Irish. 
> 
> _Two Sisters_ by Clannad  
>  _Old Maid in the Garret_ by Callanish  
>  _Whiskey in the Jar_ by the High Kings  
>  _Dulaman_ by Celtic Woman  
>  _Star of the County Down_ by The High Kings  
>  _Mairi's Wedding with Raivlin Reel_ by Callanish  
>  _Siuil, a Run (Irish Love Song)_ by Clannad
> 
> Made a spotify playlist that will be updated with the story  
> https://open.spotify.com/playlist/1eyFM2mET6AZQfB7AiiuUG?si=-cSsimZbTQWKyrLOnis_TA
> 
> Peace, friends

**Author's Note:**

> Because there's just no way those three could have a canonically healthy relationship


End file.
